As Things Should Be
by Eagaron
Summary: John is straight. At least, he thinks he is. Honestly, he's beginning to have doubts. Sherlock doesn't know what he is, and he doesn't really care. Or does he? (Sorry, summaries aren't really my division!)
1. Chapter 1

_John...can you hear me?_  
_John!_

_JOHN!_

John's eyes snapped open, ears ringing sharply. He had a nasty, ear-splitting headache, and the voice shouting at him from above was not helping. He looked around as carefully as he could without triggering anything painful, trying to discern why he was lying on the ground in the middle of...an alley? Interesting. He gingerly raised a hand to the left side of his head, fingers coming away with blood.

"JOHN!"

There was that bloody voice again. He had an on and off relationship with that voice, yes indeed he did. Frowning, he slowly got up, feeling an extra pair of hands helping him stand. "Are you okay?" the voice kept asking. He waved his hand absentmindedly, brushing off any piece of gravel that had decided to stay on his coat.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Really, I am," John said as he heard more footsteps approaching. He looked up, head finally clear, to find a startling pair of blue eyes boring a hole into his soul. He stared back, accustomed to the stare. Sherlock's eyes, however, were strangely at his eyelevel. "Come on, he's going to get away if we don't actually start moving, you know." John attempted to move forward but was held back by the consulting detective.

"The case doesn't matter as much as your well-being, John. Besides, the detective inspector can handle him, won't you, George?" Sherlock said, directing the last bit to the approaching (and very out of shape) DI Lestrade. He pointed behind him. "He went that way, heading towards the Thames. You can't miss him, really. He's carrying a head."

"It's Greg, and thanks," Lestrade replied. He turned to his team. "Alright, he's heading for the Thames! We can cut him off before he gets there, let's move!" They all took off running, heading different directions.

John stared after them for a moment before the dull throbbing of his head brought him back to reality. He touched the side of his head again. "Sherlock, what exactly did our case do to me?" Sherlock looked down at him, his concern showing for a quick second before it became masked by his usual indifference. He slowly led John to main road, hailing a taxi. "Let's get you back to Baker Street."

~l~

"What the bloody hell do you mean he shot me?!"

"I mean what I said, John. He shot you. Granted, it was a very poor shot due to the luggage he was carrying in his other arm, the angle at which he had turned around to shoot you, and the fact that he was a terrible shot. Of course, he wouldn't have been a very good shot if he had been standing still, seeing as he had never held a gun before let alone shoot one. His parents never had the money to teach him either, and apparently they never taught him that it's rather rude to steal a head. Honestly - "

"Sherlock!"

"Ah, right. It's just a mere scratch, John, you'll be fine. Would you mind putting the kettle on? I'm feeling the need for tea."

"Yes, I know I'll be fine, I'm a bloody doctor after all." John walked out the bathroom, a bandage wrapped firmly around his head twice, causing his hair to stick up in different directions. "Of course, you couldn't possibly be bothered to make some tea for once in your life. I mean, you're just lying there on the sofa, in your bathrobe, staring at the ceiling while I, the injured one, am forced to make some tea. Brilliant, Mr. Holmes, brilliant." And as usual, John commenced to make tea and Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling in his nonresponsive way.

With the water safely boiling in the kettle, John turned around to speak to Sherlock - but stopped. Sherlock was...asleep? That was a first. At least, it was the first time John had ever seen Sherlock sleep. In the three years he had shared a flat with him, he'd never seen the infamous Sherlock Holmes fall asleep, let alone on the couch in front of him. It was intimate in its own strange and extremely weird way, and John couldn't help but stare at his flatmate for a brief moment. He took in the finely-featured pale face, perfectly framed by the curly, pitch-black curls that never seemed to be out of place. His eyes absently wandered down the length of the stretched out figure, observing the thin, long hands clasped over a surprisingly strong-looking chest. John had never noticed how fit the consulting detective was, but he shook his head slightly, not exactly liking where his thoughts were going. He turned back to their tea. He was straight - there was no doubt about it. He'd dated plenty of women, and there wasn't anything that would stop that, especially Sherlock bloody Holmes.

John poured the tea into two separate cups, placing one on the table next to Sherlock, and curled up onto his chair, just as things should be.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock, of course, wasn't asleep. He never slept, didn't John know that? Well...he said never...though he did eventually catch some sleep at times, it certainly was never in front of John. No, no, Sherlock was thinking.

Their case that day had been a rather interesting one: an enigmatic and practically invisible man, a stolen head, and a chase through London. Sherlock wondered whether the DI and his team had caught him by now. Based off the missing phone call or text, he hadn't been caught yet. Catching their case should've been as easy as breathing and shouldn't have involved Scotland Yard in the first place, but the prick had gone and threatened them with a gun. A gun. It was like the man hadn't even known who Sherlock and John were! Honestly, to think he would've stood a chance against the former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers! Judging by the lack of electricity in his apartment and the inability to read the newspaper as he didn't have the money or the time to read it as he worked 24/7 at the local construction project in downtown London because he couldn't hold a decent job due to both his limited education from being poor growing up and his history of drug abuse that kept trying to become a present rather than a past, he hadn't actually known who they were. Then the idiot had pulled a gun and almost killed John.

John.

Sherlock had almost lost him that night, and he still wasn't sure why he honestly cared. He was a highly functioning sociopath, right? He couldn't possibly care about what happened to other people, they were all really just nuisances along the way...right? He was starting to doubt himself. Something had been happening to him in the past few weeks, something he wasn't quite able to understand. They had gotten in plenty of dangerous situations in the past, ones where John or his lives (and possibly everyone in London) had nearly ended, but seeing John hurt and nearly dead that night had struck something off its normal place inside of Sherlock. He knew he couldn't bare to see John hurt or in pain in any shape or form, that he wanted him to be happy for the rest of his life - but he didn't understand why.

He took a barely audible breath. He couldn't be having relationship-y feelings, could he? It was John - John, who would know what was going on. John, who always understood everyone and everything. John, kind, sympathetic, human John. John, who went out with women.

Then where did that leave him? Where did the highly functioning sociopathic consulting detective fit in? Sherlock wasn't like John, not as far as he knew. He was more analytical, a brain rather than a body. He didn't need the same things that John needed, didn't feel the same things that he felt, didn't see things the way he did. He wasn't into women, he wasn't into men, he wasn't really into...anything. Sherlock had never tried the 'dating' thing, so honestly, he didn't really know. So he couldn't possibly...like John, could he?...

Sherlock didn't so much as twitch when John set his cup of tea onto the table next to him. He let him curl himself up onto the couch with a book (Les Miserables, he thought), and the detective let the blogger fall asleep next to the fire, covering him with a blanket before he himself entered his room without so much as a whisper of sound. Just as things should be.


End file.
